just angela (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
worldexecute) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
citylogs2023-10-07 11:49 pm
worldexecute) wrote in citylogs2023-10-07 11:49 pm
( closed ) épigraphe pour un livre condamné
WHO: Angela (worldexecute) & (most of) her librarians
WHAT: Realizations at the pseudo-realization
WHERE: The garden, where only bad things happen
WHEN: Sometime early-ish October, but not like, beginning of the month
WARNINGS: Body horror, violence, broken trust... typical Projmoon bullshit
( It was only a cup of tea.
She'd been alone then, wandering through the garden—compared to some of the areas of the city, both here and in her world, it was pleasant. Lively, despite the lack of animals. And, coming upon a tea party in the woods (ha), she had felt suspicious. Naturally, she had—
and then she had felt like having a cup of tea, and it'd been downhill from there. Green tea had seemed like an interesting new choice; she'd liked the ones she's had in the city so far, and the color had been appetizing. The flavor was nice and clean too, and Angela had savored it and the quiet. A moment of peace, of respite, from her busy head, busy hands, increasingly busy life.
It was only a cup of tea, but the moment she set it down and gazed into its empty cup, she'd seen— black, iridescent feathers begin to sprout from her skin. She felt them, tearing through flesh and bunching her librarian's clothing until the seams split open, the bones of her legs cracking and reshaping into a bird's, fair human skin turning an ugly bright orange.
Angela heaves, squeezing her eyes shut, the table shaking with the force; her feathers grow and grow, sprouting from her brooch to cover her chest, fanning out behind her in Black Swan's familiar clawed cloak, and when she can focus her gaze again, she can barely see.
So she stumbles instead, unsteady on her legs, wishing she were made of metal again instead of flesh, or that she hadn't taken that tea—
Blood and dark feathers follow in Angela's wake; she's easy to track, and the feathers probably aren't unfamiliar to her fellow librarians, given they all worked in the same company, knew the same Abnormalities. The one who faced the swan isn't here, but it's alright! It'll be fine. It'll be fine in the greenhouse where she's stumbled her way to, mind scrambled between her own and Black Swan's mournful song, where the blood is worse as if vomited out, down the path of BEAUTIFUL DEADLIES...
The flowers' whispering is a fine indicator of someone being here, too. "I don’t want to wake up... I’m afraid of facing that reality." )
Shut up, ( Angela replies in a voice only half her own, tired—and at the first sound aside from the flowers, she turns and raises a shovel she's filched from the greenhouse. ) Who's there? Stay away. Please, don't come near me.
( "I'll tear you to shreds. It isn't hard. I've done it countless times before." )
worldexecute) & (most of) her librariansWHAT: Realizations at the pseudo-realization
WHERE: The garden, where only bad things happen
WHEN: Sometime early-ish October, but not like, beginning of the month
WARNINGS: Body horror, violence, broken trust... typical Projmoon bullshit
( It was only a cup of tea.
(an indulgent bit of writing)
She'd been alone then, wandering through the garden—compared to some of the areas of the city, both here and in her world, it was pleasant. Lively, despite the lack of animals. And, coming upon a tea party in the woods (ha), she had felt suspicious. Naturally, she had—
and then she had felt like having a cup of tea, and it'd been downhill from there. Green tea had seemed like an interesting new choice; she'd liked the ones she's had in the city so far, and the color had been appetizing. The flavor was nice and clean too, and Angela had savored it and the quiet. A moment of peace, of respite, from her busy head, busy hands, increasingly busy life.
It was only a cup of tea, but the moment she set it down and gazed into its empty cup, she'd seen— black, iridescent feathers begin to sprout from her skin. She felt them, tearing through flesh and bunching her librarian's clothing until the seams split open, the bones of her legs cracking and reshaping into a bird's, fair human skin turning an ugly bright orange.
Angela heaves, squeezing her eyes shut, the table shaking with the force; her feathers grow and grow, sprouting from her brooch to cover her chest, fanning out behind her in Black Swan's familiar clawed cloak, and when she can focus her gaze again, she can barely see.
So she stumbles instead, unsteady on her legs, wishing she were made of metal again instead of flesh, or that she hadn't taken that tea—
Blood and dark feathers follow in Angela's wake; she's easy to track, and the feathers probably aren't unfamiliar to her fellow librarians, given they all worked in the same company, knew the same Abnormalities. The one who faced the swan isn't here, but it's alright! It'll be fine. It'll be fine in the greenhouse where she's stumbled her way to, mind scrambled between her own and Black Swan's mournful song, where the blood is worse as if vomited out, down the path of BEAUTIFUL DEADLIES...
The flowers' whispering is a fine indicator of someone being here, too. "I don’t want to wake up... I’m afraid of facing that reality." )
Shut up, ( Angela replies in a voice only half her own, tired—and at the first sound aside from the flowers, she turns and raises a shovel she's filched from the greenhouse. ) Who's there? Stay away. Please, don't come near me.
( "I'll tear you to shreds. It isn't hard. I've done it countless times before." )